Rogue & Wolverine: Two Against the World
by BakedBeans 1up
Summary: Rogue and Wolverine never meet the X-Men during the events of the first movie. Together, they journey on an endless road to nowhere.
1. A Different Beginning

**Disclaimer:** All characters are owned and created by the wonderful minds at Marvel.

* * *

Logan sat at the end of a bar that was a popular haunt for truckers and drifters before they returned to civilization. A chewed-up cigar rolled between the coarse prints of his fingers, switching between his lips and the dirty ashtray in front of him. The television next to the dust-covered bottles on the wall talked about mutants, the subject on the tip of every politician and protester's tongue these days. The reporter said there was a group calling themselves the X-Men. Logan scoffed at the idea. X-Men? What a load of crap.

He had too many things on his mind, yet he didn't know what they were. Ghostly memories howling away, teasing him with a flash of fractured answers before disappearing back to the shadows of his mind. His quest to piece together the puzzle had taken him down too many dead ends, leaving him with nothing but more blood on his hands. Some things were maybe best left forgotten.

In one brief moment, the heat of the bar vanished out the door in to the cold, winter air. Few people noticed, their bodies warmed by the alcohol that had long since taken effect. The young woman that had entered, hood hiding her face, glided softly towards the bar and ordered a soft drink to moisten her dried lips. She dumped a heavy bag at her feet, filled with clothes and mementos from a former life. It had been a long journey, one which appeared to show no signs of coming to an end.

Logan rubbed his knuckles against the cold droplets running down his glass. While the wounds from earlier were no longer visible, and the cuts on his face gone within an instant, his hands still hurt. The young woman had watched him fight in the cage, taken a beating by the brute that had stepped up to the challenge. His face should have been crushed, his bones broken – he shouldn't be breathing yet here he was as fresh as the wild wind outside the bar.

"I saw you fight." Piped up the young woman. She seemed nervous, almost scared to look him in the eye in case he barked at her to go away. Usually he would have, though tonight his attention remained solely on his beer.

"I've never seen a man take a beating like that... he was twice your size and you go and knock him out with two hits..." She shuddered and rubbed her gloved hands as her body slowly embraced the rise in temperature. When she brought the soft drink to her lips, she held it with both hands, the glass quivering in her grip.

"Darlin', I've taken down guys _three_ times my size."

"Is that because you're... different?"

His eyes shot at her as soon as she said the word, his fingers throttled the glass tighter, his brows knitting downwards.

"You're a... mutant, ain't ya?" She wanted to put a hand over her mouth and tell herself to shut up. This wasn't the kind of conversation you had with a stranger, especially one that had just knocked out a man for a couple of dollars. The road had been lonely; she had spent so long hiding away from others that human contact now seemed foreign.

The word certainly didn't sit well with Logan, his glare swept the room for any one that heard the name roll out her lips. "You better watch where you throw that word around, kid. This is the kind of place where the town chases you out with pitchforks and torches."

Logan saw the faint flicker of a smile, though he could have been mistaken. The poor light of the bar hit her in a way that kept her guarded by shadows, an aura of insecurity laced with child-like curiosity. He wasn't quite sure why he found himself answering so many of her questions, perhaps his body was finally conceding to the pleasant effects of the beer for once.

"They do that everywhere," she whispered, "It doesn't matter where you go, or who you know, they look at you as if you're not even human any more..."

Logan's ears could hear every creak of the leather squeaking around her glass, and he responded by slamming the base of his bottle on to the bar – the sudden noise lifting the girl a few inches off her stool. "Well you're a long way from home, kid."

"That's probably for the best."

"And what's your plan?" He raised an eyebrow. "Keep walking north until you run out of land?"

She shrugged a single shoulder, rolling her eyes to a spot on the floor. "I don't know... I never thought that far ahead."

Her plan struck a chord with Logan, himself someone who had drifted from bar-to-bar with no proper direction. Except he could take care of himself. He was just surprised that she had managed to get this far. "So what's your name?"

"Ah... uh... Rogue."

"Rogue? What kind of a name is that?"

"What kind of a name is _Wolverine_?" She shot back at him, remembering the way he was introduced in the cage. Before he could reply, heavy footsteps stopped a short distance behind him. He knew who it was by the smell. Stunk of trouble.

"Hey you... you owe me some money."

Logan never turned round. "I don't do rematches, bub."

"Well I do!" The brute raided his pockets, the shine of sharp metal caused Rogue to scream something that Logan couldn't quite make out. He responded to her warning, shifting his weight to the side – the blade scraping against the battle-scarred leather of his jacket. The thug charged carelessly, quickly finding his direction rerouted straight in to a wall.

The patrons of the bar shot to life and stumbled out of the bar in a crazed stampede, nearly knocking Rogue off her chair. The assailant emerged from the impact dazed, his face bloated black and blue. His arms flailed and a weak jab took Logan by surprise. The Wolverine grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed the thug face-first in to the bar... again... and again... and again... and after a while he was holding nothing but hair and scalp. His opponent swayed slowly, and Logan finished him off with a hard-hitting uppercut that cracked the underside of his chin. It launched him high in to the air and crash-landing through a tabletop of wood and glass.

His friend made an appearance, standing a short distance from Logan with a revolver in his hand. Before Logan could react, Rogue sprung from her stool and grabbed the lowlife from behind – blinding him with her toxic palms. The pale tone of his sun-starved skin turned a sickly blue and his cries pierced the sensitive ears of Logan, but the volume soon descended in to a jaded whimper the longer Rogue held on.

When he crumpled to the floor, Rogue returned to her feet as a clatter of glass turned their attention to the bar. The owner rose from where he had cowered, shotgun convulsing violently in his hands. Logan warned him with a clenched growl, his claws scraping hungrily beneath his skin. Within seconds, the old man dropped the heavy weapon and joined those who had escaped without a beating.

Rogue found herself staring in to the eyes of the Wolverine – hunched over and snarling like a beast driven by the lust of battle. This was not the sulking stranger who had shared a drink with her earlier, this was a man with eyes glazed with violence and destruction. The scenery around them was silent, they stood like cowboys about to duel in a deserted saloon. Rogue remained still, her breaths frantic, her heart battering away at her chest as he made the first move, shifting towards her cautiously. He reached down and grabbed the duffel bag that nested at the feet of her prone stool, turning around to head to the door.

"Well what are you waitin' for?" He called over, holding the door open as she fumbled her fingers back in to the gloves. "You coming?"


	2. Breakfast

Rogue slumbered in the passenger seat of the beat-up truck that Logan called home. Well. He had called it various other names when it broke down in the middle of the night, but there weren't any that Rogue wished to repeat. The suspension of the truck threatened to snap with every turn of the wheel, the bronzed, rough metal on the underside strained beneath the weight of the old vehicle and if it weren't for the seat belt, then Wolverine would have spent the entire journey being tossed around like clothes in a dryer. Yet for the past few hours, the young woman had managed to sleep without interruption. The faint murmurs of eventful dreams turned Logan's head a few times, but the words were too quiet and fragmented to make sense of.

The motorhome slowed to a crawl, and Rogue's eyes fluttered open, groaning softly as she rolled her shoulders to stretch away the ache. The backdrop of white icing sprinkled over the Alberta landscape was gone, replaced by the browns and greens of endless shrubbery. The sun poked above the roof of the forest, the start of a new day—both for the world and Rogue. She had found someone like her. Someone who knew what it was like to be alone.

They hadn't exchanged much of a conversation since the incident at the bar. Before conceding to the call of sleep, Rogue had watched the world pass them by through the passenger's window, the white scenery rolling on an infinite loop. They hadn't even decided on where they were going—though for now, Logan's stomach was doing the driving.

"Where are we?" She yawned, furiously wiping the sleep from her eyes. She didn't know what time it was and the truck's clock looked like it had stopped moving a long time ago.

"Somewhere to eat." Logan hopped out of the vehicle and slammed the door behind him, the glass of the window shuddering with the impact. Considering the state of the rest of the motorhome, Rogue braced herself for it to smash.

The small collection of buildings formed as close as they were going to get to a city in these parts of Alberta. The main street lay almost abandoned and empty, with rows of shops and restaurants bordering the wide road, decorated with boarded windows and rotted signs. A few cars and trucks were dotted about the side of the street, belonging to those who fought the temptation to emigrate to less forgotten lands.

A large sign swayed gently in the breeze, displaying the name of the diner, was a beacon for hungry travellers. The half-lit neon letters next to the door had once spelled out ' _Come In, We're Open'_ before the effects of old-age had taken effect. "I hope it still is." Rogue quipped, looking at the depressing sight around them. "I'm so hungry, I'd even eat some of the road kill we drove past."

"I wouldn't recommend it."

She tilted her head. "Why not?"

Wolverine folded his arms and answered her with the raise of an eyebrow.

"Eww..." Rogue groaned in disgust, shuddering at the thought.

The interior of the diner was warm and rustic. The soft sounds of the jukebox whispered the old hits of decades gone, playing in tune to the chorus of chewing sung by the handful of customers. A row of booths ran the full length of the narrow room, next to the windows overlooking the desolate main street. The whole place didn't look a world away from every other rural diner in the continent.

The young girl behind the counter gave them a forced grin that was twisted by the bubblegum behind it. "Be with you in a minute!" She said, before her fingers resumed their rapid dance upon the buttons of her phone.

They shuffled over to one of the booths and Rogue sat down, quickly picking up the menu. Pancakes, grilled sandwiches, full breakfast, soup, cherry pie... her eyes darted about the words like a kid in a toy shop.

"Order me some pancakes and a coffee, would ya?" Wolverine headed to the bathroom, walking past the cast of characters that were already here. A well-dressed man, hair slicked, spoke to his tape recorder about his damn good cup of coffee. A guy in a trench coat, his face (and ego) bruised, a single hand shuffling a deck of cards, had the look of a man nursing the worst hangover in history.

 _And now a girl who can kill by touching and a guy who could survive a nuclear blast just walked in the door. This place has turned in to the capital city of crazy._

Logan pushed open the bathroom door and released a sigh. He gripped the side of the sink and looked down as the water whistled out of the tap, swirling around the once-white basin crusted with a thin skin of grime. He slowly lifted his head to look at the man in the mirror—a man who had not aged a day since he first remembered staring at his reflection. But his eyes—his eyes were heavy. He was tired of searching, tired of wandering, tired of asking questions to those who did not know answers. But his tour of searching was no longer a one-man show. He couldn't go around with this chip on his shoulder any more. His previous paths would have been dangerous for the girl—and danger was an old friend he kept bumping in to. Wolverine had finally found something—or rather someone—to keep him going.

As he squeezed back in to the booth and sank in the seat, a burning question caused Rogue to lick her lips. "So we never did talk about where we were going to go."

"You're right." Logan drank the coffee that had been poured during his visit to the bathroom.

"Well... do you have a plan?"

"Darlin'... does it look like I have a plan?"

Rogue shrugged. "I dunno... where were you going before we met?"

"The only place I was going was the bottom of a bottle."

"Yeah, but... we can't just keep driving around and around with nowhere to go." She lifted a finger, wagging and circling it as she talked.

"So where do you suggest we go? Alaska? New York? Florida?"

"As long as it's nowhere near Mississippi..."

The waitress skipped over with a plate in both hands. "Eggs, beans, two portions of sausage, three portions of bacon, hash brown, two slices of toast..." The dish hovered over Wolverine's side of the table, before Rogue raised her hand.

"Ah... actually that's mine." She said, her cheeks sprinkling with a shade of red as both the waitress and Wolverine looked bemused at her order. Within moments of the waitress placing their breakfast on the table, the gloves were off. Rogue took no notice of the cutlery, and wolfed the various items down her throat without giving her teeth a chance to chew on them. Before her mouth was empty, her greasy fingers had already picked up something else.

Wolverine went at a slower pace, stabbing his pancakes with his fork and placing them in to his mouth in a more civilised manner. "So who were you running from?" He guzzled down the coffee, his throat seemingly immune to the scolding liquid. "Family? Friends?"

"Everyone." Rogue replied, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "I was running from everyone." She pushed away the oily plate, with little more than a few dozen crumbs left on it.

"What happened?"

"I... uh..."

"Did you have a boyfriend?"

"Uh... yeah." The breakfast had turned in to an interrogation, the glare of the morning sun blinding her like the bright bulb dangling above as she pleaded her innocence.

"Is that why you went on the run?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Bad things happen when I touch people."

"Yeah, I noticed." A highlight reel of the brawl played over in Logan's mind—the scream of the man that had given a piggy-back to Rogue. The way his skin bleached, the way his veins throbbed and the way his frail, sapped body crumbled to the floor when she let him go...

"But I can't control it. I can't decide when to hurt people, and when not to. It doesn't matter if it's a shake of the hand or a hug or—"

"A kiss?" Logan's interruption brought a look of shock to Rogue's face. "That's why you're here, ain't it? You and your boyfriend...?

"I didn't mean to do it, OK!" She collapsed in to her folded arms. "We only kissed... we _barely_ kissed..." Her head rose and Rogue shrivelled her face behind a wave of hair. "...for a few seconds... and now he's in a coma because of me."

They shared more in common than they thought. Rogue had put her boyfriend in a coma, Logan had did the same thing to many more. He reached out for her hand on the table but she pulled back through instinct, their eyes locking in to a staring contest that Rogue never had a chance of winning. Her head dipped, and a few droplets splashed on to the top of the table.

"Look... it's all right. You're not alone any more."

She lifted her head, heavy as it was.

"You've got me." He saw the twitch of a smirk. "We'll get through this."

"Thanks... Wolverine."

"My name's Logan."

The young woman wiped at her eyes, finally allowing a smile to take over.

"Marie."


	3. A New Challenger Appears!

**Update:** I've changed the title of the story, as I was on a Talking Heads binge when I originally posted it. I think the new name is a better fit for it, anyway.

* * *

Weeks fell off the calendar like the snow fell from the sky. Logan lost track of time, though with the weather getting worse and the terrain becoming more difficult to traverse, he knew they were hitting the peak of winter. A bar. A cage. A small, forgotten dot on the world map. Every town they passed through was the same, like the repetitive background in a cheap cartoon.

Tonight, the Wolverine had returned to the cage. The crowd shouted and swore, most of which were empty threats from the men too scared to step up to become yet another defeated challenger. His fingers hung from the rusted wire, eyes piercing through the squares crusted in dried blood and sweat from previous wars. There she was. Rogue. She didn't make a sound, save for a whispered yelp whenever heavy, drunken shoulders barged in to her nimble frame.

"You all right, kid?" He didn't get much of a response, nor did he like being separated from her by so much metal. "I'll be fine. Remember what I told you..."

* * *

 _The conversation had taken place on a bitter night—the sort of night where Rogue would love to be wrapped up in layers of duvets, blankets and a mound of soft toys she secretly owned. Instead, she was perched on cold timber, learning the rules to surviving in the wild, according to Wolverine._

 _The subject of his mutation had finally come up. "It heals everything."_

" _E-everything?" Rogue had quivered, knees up to her chest, her clothed claws cuddling her legs and digging deep in to her skinny arms. She sat as close to the campfire as she could without fear of being nipped by the flames—though even that wasn't enough to keep her body warm._

" _Cuts... scratches... bruises..." He'd risen from his spot on the ground and circled the fire, removing the worn leather from his torso and wrapping the jacket around his shuddering companion. Her lips struggled to form a smile, every breath punctuated with a cool cloud that reminded her of school friends that used to hide at the rear of the building, cigarettes in their hands._

" _There hasn't been anything yet that's kept me down for long."_

* * *

"LOGAN!"

Everything was red. Blood dripped from his brows, splashing on to the hairs of his chest. The back of his hand wiped away the colour, but it didn't take long to return. Logan lumbered through the cage door, his fingers swiping the air in search of the only person in the room that didn't want to see him turned in to a crushed, adamantium can.

"R-Rogue..." He felt the soft touch of the slender, gloved hands directing him to his chair, where his sore muscles finally gave way.

"Oh ma god, you're a mess!"

"Thanks for the compliment." His hand rummaged around at his feet for the bottle of beer that had long-since warmed from the body heat of the sweating spectators surrounding the cage. Rogue bent down and reluctantly wrapped his fingers around the glass.

"I'm serious, Logan. Look at ya."

"Look at me? Ain't you see the other guy?"

The young woman peeked over her shoulder, her eyes following the slumped remains as Logan's opponent was dragged out of the cage and through the crowd. She wasn't quite sure where he would be dumped. This didn't seem like the sort of place that was kind enough to drop their half-dead fighters at the front door of the nearest hospital. Her attention returned to Logan as she furiously scrubbed at the open wounds, the cloth soaked with scarlet. "Logan, there's so much blood..."

"Don't worry, it'll stop."

Rogue's lips parted, her breath whistled a sharp inhale as her eyes were frozen on the fascinating sight before her. Logan's skin began to return to it's regular colour, tingling like paint strokes. It was the first time she had saw it happen up close, and his healing factor was just as powerful as he had said...

* * *

" _Wh-what about b-broken bones?" Logan had caught them something to eat—a small, cute, furry animal that had been hopping around happily before a trio of blades brought a brutal end to it's short life. The thought alone had repressed her appetite without having taken a bite._

" _That's never been a problem." Wolverine mumbled, his mouth full of wild meat._

" _Come on... every one's broken a bone at some point. N-not even your lil' pinky?" She raised her smallest finger and wiggled it with a smirk._

" _Not as long as I can remember."_

" _So what makes you so different?"_

 _Logan looked down at his knuckles, fingers clenched tight as the claws asked permission to come out. "It's a long story..."_

* * *

Rogue's quiet thoughts were silenced by the eruption of the rowdy crowd. "You... you don't need to do this." She pleaded, the bloody rag no longer in her hands.

Logan brought the beer to his lips, the liquid lukewarm yet refreshing, and poured the remaining contents down his throat. "I know I don't, kid. But it's either this, or we have what ever scraps we can find in the trash can for dinner tonight. And tomorrow. And the next. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to eat junk—I at least want it served to me on a plate."

He pulled himself to his feet, his body rejuvenated and ready for another round. His thumb pressed against the corner of her lips, forcing her mouth in to a half-smile. His rugged touch, teasingly brief, felt as soft as silk caressing her skin. When Logan let go, her smirk remained, causing him to reflect one back at her.

Wolverine entered the cage for the last time, navigating to his corner through the thick puddles of red. With his back to the door, he gave Rogue a final nod.

"Ladies and gentlemen... get ready for your main event of the evening!" The short, greasy-haired announcer paraded around the middle of the cage like he was the king of the ring, his scripted bravado practiced for hours in front of a broken mirror in the office of his run-down saloon. He always kept his distance from the taller fighters to ensure that his stunted stature did not dare dent the stench of his own self-importance.

"Let me introduce the man who will finally defeat the Wolverine...!"

In the distant shadows of the far corner, Rogue could make out the shape of some _thing_ approaching the battlefield—something that reminded her of that night in the wilderness.

" _So if you can heal anything... does that mean_... _will ya ever stay dead?"_

A barbaric roar, a sound that could not come from a normal man, sent the audience in to a frenzy. Logan's eyebrows dipped downward, his head began to turn towards the source of the noise as the challenger hunched forward to fit under the door.

" _One day I will."_

The announcer pointed to the beast with delight. "He is... SABRETOOTH!"


	4. Hell in a Cell

**Note:** For a bonus dose of Marvel goodness, check out my newest story: " _Gambit: Dames and Card Games_ ", which is a spin-off from this one and features cameos from Rogue, Wolverine and other randoms.

Follows, favourites and reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

The crowd chanted for death. Logan wished to disappoint them; the man known as Sabretooth looked hell-bent on sending them home happy.

He had been fast. Too fast for someone of his size. His claws dug deep, tearing at flesh like a deranged animal swiping at it's meal. Wolverine had not been used to being the prey, and he had scrambled to free himself from the clutches of the beast that had pounced upon him. His nails went deep, leaving marks on Logan's skin that remained for that extra bit longer than usual.

Wolverine fought back and got to his feet, a fist connecting against his opponent's nose, cartilage crunching against the smack of his plated knuckles. It knocked the beast off balance, his huge stature stumbling in to the chain link, the metal almost flattened by his heavy mass. Logan struck Sabretooth's gut with a trio of right jabs that were powered by rage, but his offence was broken by a sudden right hook that knocked him back.

The back of Logan's hand wiped away the daze as another punch sent him to the ground. Thick fingers squeezed at Logan's neck—the sharp tips of the long nails tickling at his skin—lifted him from the filthy floor and threw him in to the side of the cage. The Canadian collapsed to one knee, a hand clutching his shredded torso as blood dribbled down his chin and from his stomach. Sabretooth charged at him and a knee crashed against his jaw with a painful crack, sending a vibration across his adamantium skull.

Logan's eyes closed, his fingers blindly crawling up the metal grating as they attempted to pull him up—and he began to rise. But not from his own doing, but by blood-soaked paws that lifted him by a handful of hair. He was launched through the air and bounced off the fence, rolling on to his stomach. Through the gaps in the battered mesh, he caught the worried gaze of Rogue, as she bounced against the shoulders of the taunting horde. The sea of spectators attacked like the waves of a wild ocean.

 _I always get back up,_ he had told her.

There was always a first time for everything.

x x x

A war had ripped through the saloon, smothering the bar with fire and death. Thick smoke polluted Rogue's lungs, a harsh cough fired from her mouth like a shotgun. The fight had not been like the ones before it—the battle reminiscent of a pair of gladiators, where deep wounds were little more than a tickle to their bodies riddled with invisible scars.

A path of devastation had been left behind. As the beast—the man the announcer gleefully called Sabretooth—thumped his fists against the hard interior of Logan's body, she feared that those hands of his may finally be the thing to break the so-called indestructible metal woven upon the Wolverine's bones. Her fingers had sheltered her eyes from the violence, refusing to budge for fear of witnessing something that would haunt her dreams.

"Logan!" She wheezed in to her hand, while the other swiped at the smog in a pitiful attempt to clear it. She approached the cage, or rather, what was left of it. The wires had been shredded, the ripped steel painted in red and a large hole in the metal structure looked like a wild animal had escaped from captivity, but after what Rogue had witnessed—there were actually two.

The faint display of shadows waltzed through the smoke, accompanied by the echo of grunts, the smack of skin-hitting-skin and the growls of warriors caught up in an endless battle. She had to get out of here. The weak cries of the wounded did little to comfort her, her feet crunched on a floor of glass, the floorboards soaked with a cocktail of alcohol and blood. The dreary decor of the bar—the stained walls and the worn skin of the tables and chairs were clothed in a thickening smog. Hardly a single piece of furniture remained in one piece, fragments of wood, glass and bodies were scattered like the wreckage of an air crash. As Rogue stumbled blindly through the battlefield, she took care to watch her step. For the first time since meeting Logan, Rogue felt lost, alone and scared. All senses were blocked except for the stench of overbeating ember and the pain-riddled cries from the men who had pretended to be tough.

"Umph!" She coughed, as Rogue went face first in to something that did not even budge an inch upon her impact. It was him. The beast. _Sabretooth_. His skin was as stubborn as stone, cold and rough even as the world around him burned. A single hand grabbed her top and lifted her almost two feet in to the air. Sabretooth—hair wild and unkempt, allowed to grow in it's natural untidiness—brought her face mere inches from his. She struggled to free herself from his grip but as her feet dangled so far from the dusty ground, her body froze.

"Wolverine's little cheerleader. . ." He snarled with hungry delight. A small piece of dull metal, inscribed with _Wolverine_ , hung from the crevice of his claws, dangling like a trophy from his recent conquest. His lips parted, fangs clenched, the droplets of saliva slithered down the corner of his mouth, shining from the erratic flames. ". . .where's your pom poms? Heh."

The knot of fabric dropped from his paws, though her freedom was brief—he caught her neck with a palm carpeted with hair. The claws squeezed around the softness of her throat, the quick thump of her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. Her attempts to scream were muted, forming nothing more than pathetic whimpers that rumbled through the sharp inhales of fumes.

"I always make this s-slow. . ." He said, as the muscles on his face began to twitch, the colour rinsed from his face and his molars clamped together. A hushed croak rolled from his narrowing throat and with a weakened roar, he tossed her as far away from him as he could. Rogue was sent flying above the budding flames, crashing through a wall that had been bruised from the battle.

Her eyes fluttered, the filthy white walls of the washroom slowly darkened around her, while every contour of the young mutant's body ached as broken ceramic stabbed in to her back. She closed her eyelids for what she accepted as the final time as a lumbering shadow blocked out the light of the burning bar. . . her fingers wrapped tightly around the snatched dog tags in her palm.

x x x

"Rogue. . ." Bloodied hands latched on to her shoulders, giving her the faintest of shakes. ". . .wake up, kid. This ain't the place to fall asleep."

She was unconscious, but her heart drummed a quiet beat that told him she was alive. Her body had not been built for such punishment, thrown like a lifeless rag doll through plaster and wood. The fire had slithered in to the bathroom through the hole, and Logan picked her up, cradling her in his arms. He stepped through the gap and grimaced at the taste of ember in his mouth. The smoke crawled through his nostrils and swirled around his lungs, painting them black. His body was used to working tirelessly to scrub away the effects of smoke.

" _Wolverine_!"

Logan stopped and burrowed his eyebrows at the origin of the battle cry. A wall of flames split the room in two, the fingers of the blaze keeping the opponents separated.

"This fight is not over. . . _Wolverine_!"

Rogue felt heavy in his weakened arms still hurting from the war with the beast.

"Until we next meet. . . you will have to live knowing _I beat you_. I _always_ beat you!" His snarl was drowned out by the carnage around them as the hulking silhouette vanished in to the background once more. Wolverine was left alone with the hurt girl in his arms, Rogue's whimpers turning in to coughs as the smoke began to attack.

Logan always had questions—and now, he had even more to add to the list. But it seemed finally, there was a man that had the answers to them. A man whose scent tickled the singed nostrils of Wolverine's nose with an aroma of unwelcome nostalgia.

A man who he believed he had met before.

Sabretooth.

A man who had beat him.


	5. Midnight Sonata

Logan stumbled out of the burning saloon and in to the tranquility of the night. His breaths, sharp and rapid, tasted of a freshness that had cleaned away the sour taste of the smoke. By the time he had escaped from the building, Sabretooth was gone. Part of him had expected his mysterious opponent to be waiting, ready to battle Logan as he held Rogue in his arms. The other part of him was thankful that the beast had decided not to finish the job.

With the slumbering lithe body balanced in his arms, he managed to open the back door of the truck and climbed in. He kicked away some of the rubbish scattered on the floor—his toe flicking away crumpled up newspapers and a shirt laden with holes and dried blood.

Logan lay her down on the bed, his hands treating her like fragile cargo. Her face had been blackened by the smoke, fragments of wall were dusted through her hair but even with the thick layer of soot over her skin, it was easy to see the pretty girl beneath it. He wanted to make sure she was okay, but the faint wails of sirens gave Logan the hint that the burning building would bring a lot of attention, and he didn't want to be here when it all came. Wolverine shut the door with a hard slam that did nothing to disturb the deep dreams that she was lost in.

He walked to the driver's door and took one last look at the display of carnage that had taken over the bar, the fingers of the fire reaching as high as they could, the smoke polluting the beauty of the night sky. Logan got in to the truck and started the engine, taking off in to the unknown. The radio hummed a comforting requiem to the bloody battle that had preceded it, a soothing blues number that provided a soundtrack to the highlights of the fight in his mind.

 _Who the hell is he?_

Sabretooth's movements had been unusual, yet strangely predictable, as though Logan had encountered it before. However, he had still been given a beating so bad, it nearly knocked a few images back in to his head.

Right now, he didn't care about the defeat, nor did Sabretooth's words linger on his mind. Rogue lay on the unkempt bed, her chest pulsing gently beneath her jacket. His hands had wrapped around the steering wheel with the tightest of grips, fighting with the jaded suspension of the truck as it bounced against the country road. The dim lights of the vehicle beamed the twisting road in front of them, Logan's foot remained hard against the floor, unwilling to pull away for even the most dangerous of bends. By now, even the glow of the wreckage had disappeared from the wing mirrors, leaving them to speed through the shadows of the midnight canvas.

x x x

The door to the motel room opened with a slow squeak, the prolonged noise more disruptive than a quick push would have been. The over-powering light of the morning sun soaked Rogue's eyes with a tingle, and her hand went up to shield away the strong shade of warmth. Logan closed the door with the sole of his boot, a brown paper bag cradled in his arms.

The room was small, the interior filled with dark woods and dull colours. A double bed with a emerald cover dominated the room, leaving little space for an uncomfortable-looking armchair in the corner. A small television, almost as old as Rogue was, sat perched on a small chest of drawers near the end of the bed. It had been the second motel that Logan came across, wishing to remain as far from the memories of last night as possible.

"How long you been awake?" He asked, pocketing the keys.

"A while." Her hand returned to her face, this time to block a yawn from escaping.

"How's the head?" Logan replied with a yawn of his own.

"It's not so bad. Still hurts a little. Shoulders are kind of sore, too."

"Here." His paws rummaged through the bag, fingers grabbing a small box and tossing them in her direction. "These should help with the pain."

Rogue caught the box and studied the words on the side, opening the flap and pinching the tray of tablets with the tips of her fingers. "They'll help with the pain all right. . . take too many of these, and ya could put down an elephant."

"Painkillers ain't usually part of my shoppin' list."

"Well. . . we can't all be lucky enough to have fast healing powers."

She got a smile out of him, and the Canadian mutant wandered over to the edge of the bed, sitting at what seemed like the furthest corner away from her. The smirk soon faded, his expression turning as cold as stone, eyes catching a spot on the floor rather than catch a glimpse of hers.

"Last night. . ." He began. ". . .with Sabretooth. . . you got hurt because of me."

"What. . .?"

"Just listen, kid." He interrupted, finally locking eyes with her. "This is what happens. I get hurt and I heal. But it's people like _you_ that get hurt the most. I always said it would be dangerous. But this time, I thought I could protect you from it all. I promised myself that I'd never let anything happen to you. . ."

The pounding against the back of her skull remained at a constant beat, blurred memories swirling around her head like the flutter of ash from the burning bar. Not for a moment did she blame him for what happened to her. He had sheltered her from the harsh winter. . .

"So. . . what? We're just going to part ways? You think I'll be safer wandering around Canada alone?"

His lips parted, but no words were able to come out.

"The only way I can be safe is if I'm with you."

"Trust me." Logan frowned. "I don't have a good track record of that."

Rogue's slender form shifted upon the crumpled landscape of the linen, rising to her knees while leaning back in to her heels. "Then let's do _something_ about it."

"Darlin'. . . it ain't gonna be long before this Sabretooth shows back up. Or some other freak. For all I know, I've pissed off a thousand people in my life and I don't remember a single one of them." His head swiveled towards her. "I wake up every mornin'. . . every day, bracing myself for a fight. Do you really want to do the same?"

Her knees shuffled across the soft emerald, closing the gap by a few inches. "It's your choice, Logan. We either say goodbye. . . or you show me how to defend myself."

Almost as soon as she shuffled towards him, he stood up and glided across the carpet towards the window, two fingers prying open the blinds as he looked out to the scenery. "I can't even defend myself anymore."

"So ya lost a fight. . . every one does."

Logan's eyes were distracted by the flutter of a trench coat waving to him from a pay phone in the distance. The figure marched in front of the booth, one hand scrubbing his hair while the other strangled the neck of the receiver.

"Yeah. . ." He growled, returning to the conversation. ". . .But it feels like this isn't the first fight I've lost to him."

x x x

Earlier that night, everything had went bright. The yellow glow of headlights splashed over the windscreen, stabbing at Logan's eyes through the gaps between the dried muck. Many people describe their moment with near-death as having their life flash in front of their eyes—unsurprisingly for Wolverine, he didn't get much of a replay. A loud roar, belching like a trumpet, spat at the old truck as a stampede of machinery rushed past—their thick metal skins splattered with the earthy colours of the Canadian landscape. Their rubber feet churned through the dirt road, their glaring eyes shining the path in front of them. There was only one direction for them—the scene of the battle between the beasts. But they were arriving at the party too late, the guests had already gone, and they would find nothing but the wreckage of the war left behind.

Wolverine's pick-up was sent scurrying off the road in a panic. His foot reacted quick, kicking down on to the pedals while his hands hugged the wheel tight. The tyres remained rooted to the ground as his truck came to a stop. His head spun round to the rear of his motor-home, relieved to find his sudden swerve had not caused Rogue to be thrown from the bed. . . though the same could not be said for the scraps of rubbish that had tumbled around the floor for the previous few months.

Logan opened the door and jumped out in to the wet mush at the side of the road. The vehicles—five in total—howled in to the distance, trampling everything in their path. But Logan's sharp eyesight caught something etched on to the rear of the last truck, printed on to the rusting olive shell. . .

 _Department X_.

Logan recognised the name, a signature left by an artist whose work he was familiar with.

Very familiar.

The Wolverine's eyes drifted down towards his cracked palms, as his wrist rotated to show his knuckles painted with red.

 _He_ was their work of art.


End file.
